Kingsley Amis famously said that the three most depressing words in the English language are “red or white?” For anyone who has been to a second-rate book launch or a provincial gallery opening there must be a degree of sympathy. What, after all, is more disheartening than the choice between a warm glass of supermarket Sauvignon Blanc or a beakerful of corner shop Merlot? When I was a student, I didn’t know any better and would happily buy whatever plonk was cheapest at the local petrol station (“garage grog” as it later became known) but Kingsley Amis’s appreciation of good wine only exaggerated the ignominy of having to slum it at bad parties. [READ]

Kingsley Amis famously said that the three most depressing words in the English language are “red or white?” For anyone who has been to a second-rate book launch or a provincial gallery opening there must be a degree of sympathy. What, after all, is more disheartening than the choice between a warm glass of supermarket Sauvignon Blanc or a beakerful of corner shop Merlot? When I was a student, I didn’t know any better and would happily buy whatever plonk was cheapest at the local petrol station (“garage grog” as it later became known) but Kingsley Amis’s appreciation of good wine only exaggerated the ignominy of having to slum it at bad parties. [READ]

Kingsley Amis famously said that the three most depressing words in the English language are “red or white?” For anyone who has been to a second-rate book launch or a provincial gallery opening there must be a degree of sympathy. What, after all, is more disheartening than the choice between a warm glass of supermarket Sauvignon Blanc or a beakerful of corner shop Merlot? When I was a student, I didn’t know any better and would happily buy whatever plonk was cheapest at the local petrol station (“garage grog” as it later became known) but Kingsley Amis’s appreciation of good wine only exaggerated the ignominy of having to slum it at bad parties. [READ]

Kingsley Amis famously said that the three most depressing words in the English language are “red or white?” For anyone who has been to a second-rate book launch or a provincial gallery opening there must be a degree of sympathy. What, after all, is more disheartening than the choice between a warm glass of supermarket Sauvignon Blanc or a beakerful of corner shop Merlot? When I was a student, I didn’t know any better and would happily buy whatever plonk was cheapest at the local petrol station (“garage grog” as it later became known) but Kingsley Amis’s appreciation of good wine only exaggerated the ignominy of having to slum it at bad parties. [READ]

The reason that the restaurant business is so misunderstood is, ironically, because everyone thinks they understand it.In some respects, restaurants are a very straightforward proposition: you sit at a table, you order, you consume, and then you pay. In other words, “you give me food, I give you money.” Would-be restaurateurs and chefs, particularly those who hold Master Chef in such high esteem (disclaimer: other reality TV cooking contests are available) go even further. They believe that the ability to throw a decent dinner party is all that is required to open a restaurant. A restaurant is, after all, just a dinner party with a till, isn’t it? [READ]

The reason that the restaurant business is so misunderstood is, ironically, because everyone thinks they understand it.In some respects, restaurants are a very straightforward proposition: you sit at a table, you order, you consume, and then you pay. In other words, “you give me food, I give you money.” Would-be restaurateurs and chefs, particularly those who hold Master Chef in such high esteem (disclaimer: other reality TV cooking contests are available) go even further. They believe that the ability to throw a decent dinner party is all that is required to open a restaurant. A restaurant is, after all, just a dinner party with a till, isn’t it? [READ]

The reason that the restaurant business is so misunderstood is, ironically, because everyone thinks they understand it.In some respects, restaurants are a very straightforward proposition: you sit at a table, you order, you consume, and then you pay. In other words, “you give me food, I give you money.” Would-be restaurateurs and chefs, particularly those who hold Master Chef in such high esteem (disclaimer: other reality TV cooking contests are available) go even further. They believe that the ability to throw a decent dinner party is all that is required to open a restaurant. A restaurant is, after all, just a dinner party with a till, isn’t it? [READ]

The reason that the restaurant business is so misunderstood is, ironically, because everyone thinks they understand it.In some respects, restaurants are a very straightforward proposition: you sit at a table, you order, you consume, and then you pay. In other words, “you give me food, I give you money.” Would-be restaurateurs and chefs, particularly those who hold Master Chef in such high esteem (disclaimer: other reality TV cooking contests are available) go even further. They believe that the ability to throw a decent dinner party is all that is required to open a restaurant. A restaurant is, after all, just a dinner party with a till, isn’t it? [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I have been sitting on Ellen’s steps, in the sun. Ellen is my friend and lives nearby, and while her back garden is north facing and in shade most of the time, her front steps get the sun when it shines. And I have sat many times on these steps, watching our kids play in the street below, drinking tea and eating biscuits, drinking wine, laughing. She nods at the neighbours, or engages in full gossipy chats with them, supervises her children, relaxes. It always struck me that the steps are a precious thing to have.
It was Ellen who introduced me to Jane Jacobs, and Jane Jacobs would have delighted in Ellen’s steps. Jacobs was an urban planner and campaigner who wrote a book called ‘The Death and Life of American Cities’ in which she critiqued the predominant urban planning policies of the 1950s. Her interest was in ‘organic urban vibrancy’, the street in general, and the pavement in particular. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I have been sitting on Ellen’s steps, in the sun. Ellen is my friend and lives nearby, and while her back garden is north facing and in shade most of the time, her front steps get the sun when it shines. And I have sat many times on these steps, watching our kids play in the street below, drinking tea and eating biscuits, drinking wine, laughing. She nods at the neighbours, or engages in full gossipy chats with them, supervises her children, relaxes. It always struck me that the steps are a precious thing to have.
It was Ellen who introduced me to Jane Jacobs, and Jane Jacobs would have delighted in Ellen’s steps. Jacobs was an urban planner and campaigner who wrote a book called ‘The Death and Life of American Cities’ in which she critiqued the predominant urban planning policies of the 1950s. Her interest was in ‘organic urban vibrancy’, the street in general, and the pavement in particular. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I have been sitting on Ellen’s steps, in the sun. Ellen is my friend and lives nearby, and while her back garden is north facing and in shade most of the time, her front steps get the sun when it shines. And I have sat many times on these steps, watching our kids play in the street below, drinking tea and eating biscuits, drinking wine, laughing. She nods at the neighbours, or engages in full gossipy chats with them, supervises her children, relaxes. It always struck me that the steps are a precious thing to have.
It was Ellen who introduced me to Jane Jacobs, and Jane Jacobs would have delighted in Ellen’s steps. Jacobs was an urban planner and campaigner who wrote a book called ‘The Death and Life of American Cities’ in which she critiqued the predominant urban planning policies of the 1950s. Her interest was in ‘organic urban vibrancy’, the street in general, and the pavement in particular. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I have been sitting on Ellen’s steps, in the sun. Ellen is my friend and lives nearby, and while her back garden is north facing and in shade most of the time, her front steps get the sun when it shines. And I have sat many times on these steps, watching our kids play in the street below, drinking tea and eating biscuits, drinking wine, laughing. She nods at the neighbours, or engages in full gossipy chats with them, supervises her children, relaxes. It always struck me that the steps are a precious thing to have.
It was Ellen who introduced me to Jane Jacobs, and Jane Jacobs would have delighted in Ellen’s steps. Jacobs was an urban planner and campaigner who wrote a book called ‘The Death and Life of American Cities’ in which she critiqued the predominant urban planning policies of the 1950s. Her interest was in ‘organic urban vibrancy’, the street in general, and the pavement in particular. [READ]

Earlier this month, anti-noise campaigners Pipedown called for a ban on music in restaurants. That’s ALL music in ALL restaurants. They believe that the enjoyment of a nice meal can be severely marred or even ruined by the mellifluous strains of Acker Bilk or the mellow rhythms of Chet Faker. (Well, I suppose they’d have a point with Acker Bilk.) Pipedown cite “getting the order wrong” and “missing the punch line to a joke” as two of the catastrophes that might befall diners in a restaurant that plays music. Joanna Lumley is a supporter. If you are too, and you hate listening to music while you eat, they suggest going straight to the top by encouraging strongly-worded letters to CEOs of large organisations, and they advocate leaving stinking reviews on Trip Advisor if a hotel or restaurant plays music (because, clearly, there isn’t enough whingeing on there already.) [READ]

Earlier this month, anti-noise campaigners Pipedown called for a ban on music in restaurants. That’s ALL music in ALL restaurants. They believe that the enjoyment of a nice meal can be severely marred or even ruined by the mellifluous strains of Acker Bilk or the mellow rhythms of Chet Faker. (Well, I suppose they’d have a point with Acker Bilk.) Pipedown cite “getting the order wrong” and “missing the punch line to a joke” as two of the catastrophes that might befall diners in a restaurant that plays music. Joanna Lumley is a supporter. If you are too, and you hate listening to music while you eat, they suggest going straight to the top by encouraging strongly-worded letters to CEOs of large organisations, and they advocate leaving stinking reviews on Trip Advisor if a hotel or restaurant plays music (because, clearly, there isn’t enough whingeing on there already.) [READ]

Earlier this month, anti-noise campaigners Pipedown called for a ban on music in restaurants. That’s ALL music in ALL restaurants. They believe that the enjoyment of a nice meal can be severely marred or even ruined by the mellifluous strains of Acker Bilk or the mellow rhythms of Chet Faker. (Well, I suppose they’d have a point with Acker Bilk.) Pipedown cite “getting the order wrong” and “missing the punch line to a joke” as two of the catastrophes that might befall diners in a restaurant that plays music. Joanna Lumley is a supporter. If you are too, and you hate listening to music while you eat, they suggest going straight to the top by encouraging strongly-worded letters to CEOs of large organisations, and they advocate leaving stinking reviews on Trip Advisor if a hotel or restaurant plays music (because, clearly, there isn’t enough whingeing on there already.) [READ]

Earlier this month, anti-noise campaigners Pipedown called for a ban on music in restaurants. That’s ALL music in ALL restaurants. They believe that the enjoyment of a nice meal can be severely marred or even ruined by the mellifluous strains of Acker Bilk or the mellow rhythms of Chet Faker. (Well, I suppose they’d have a point with Acker Bilk.) Pipedown cite “getting the order wrong” and “missing the punch line to a joke” as two of the catastrophes that might befall diners in a restaurant that plays music. Joanna Lumley is a supporter. If you are too, and you hate listening to music while you eat, they suggest going straight to the top by encouraging strongly-worded letters to CEOs of large organisations, and they advocate leaving stinking reviews on Trip Advisor if a hotel or restaurant plays music (because, clearly, there isn’t enough whingeing on there already.) [READ]

There is a scene in the movie Five Easy Pieces where Jack Nicholson’s character Bobby attempts to order breakfast in a roadside diner. He wants plain toast, which isn’t on the menu, but the restaurant has a strict “no substitutions” policy.Bobby: I’d like a plain omelette, no potatoes, tomatoes instead, a cup of coffee and wheat toast.Waitress: No substitutions.Bobby: What do you mean? You don’t have any tomatoes?Waitress: Only what’s on the menu. You can have a #2 – a plain omelette, it comes with cottage fries and rolls.Bobby: I know what it comes with but it’s not what I want.Waitress: I’ll come back when you’ve made up your mind... [READ]

There is a scene in the movie Five Easy Pieces where Jack Nicholson’s character Bobby attempts to order breakfast in a roadside diner. He wants plain toast, which isn’t on the menu, but the restaurant has a strict “no substitutions” policy.Bobby: I’d like a plain omelette, no potatoes, tomatoes instead, a cup of coffee and wheat toast.Waitress: No substitutions.Bobby: What do you mean? You don’t have any tomatoes?Waitress: Only what’s on the menu. You can have a #2 – a plain omelette, it comes with cottage fries and rolls.Bobby: I know what it comes with but it’s not what I want.Waitress: I’ll come back when you’ve made up your mind... [READ]

There is a scene in the movie Five Easy Pieces where Jack Nicholson’s character Bobby attempts to order breakfast in a roadside diner. He wants plain toast, which isn’t on the menu, but the restaurant has a strict “no substitutions” policy.Bobby: I’d like a plain omelette, no potatoes, tomatoes instead, a cup of coffee and wheat toast.Waitress: No substitutions.Bobby: What do you mean? You don’t have any tomatoes?Waitress: Only what’s on the menu. You can have a #2 – a plain omelette, it comes with cottage fries and rolls.Bobby: I know what it comes with but it’s not what I want.Waitress: I’ll come back when you’ve made up your mind... [READ]

There is a scene in the movie Five Easy Pieces where Jack Nicholson’s character Bobby attempts to order breakfast in a roadside diner. He wants plain toast, which isn’t on the menu, but the restaurant has a strict “no substitutions” policy.Bobby: I’d like a plain omelette, no potatoes, tomatoes instead, a cup of coffee and wheat toast.Waitress: No substitutions.Bobby: What do you mean? You don’t have any tomatoes?Waitress: Only what’s on the menu. You can have a #2 – a plain omelette, it comes with cottage fries and rolls.Bobby: I know what it comes with but it’s not what I want.Waitress: I’ll come back when you’ve made up your mind... [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I have been in Cornwall for the past week and have found myself furiously photographing walls, as I often do, trailing behind my family on every walk as they roll their eyes. I am keen on walls generally. I have always thought that in a parallel, fantasy life - one in which I have been given a dose of artistic talent - I would have been a fabric or wallpaper designer, that if I were ever an artist I would have been one that works on a flat plane. Because I love a spread of pebbles on a beach, a daisy-studded lawn, ripples on sand, a good lichen-covered wall. Flatness and pattern. But alas I was not blessed with the relevant artistic skills, and so I find myself endlessly photographing walls. And Cornwall gives good wall. There is nothing quite like a Cornish wall anywhere else, or rather I must refer to them by their proper name: Cornish hedges. A Cornish hedge is part wall, part earth sculpture, part planter, and a thing of great beauty. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I have been in Cornwall for the past week and have found myself furiously photographing walls, as I often do, trailing behind my family on every walk as they roll their eyes. I am keen on walls generally. I have always thought that in a parallel, fantasy life - one in which I have been given a dose of artistic talent - I would have been a fabric or wallpaper designer, that if I were ever an artist I would have been one that works on a flat plane. Because I love a spread of pebbles on a beach, a daisy-studded lawn, ripples on sand, a good lichen-covered wall. Flatness and pattern. But alas I was not blessed with the relevant artistic skills, and so I find myself endlessly photographing walls. And Cornwall gives good wall. There is nothing quite like a Cornish wall anywhere else, or rather I must refer to them by their proper name: Cornish hedges. A Cornish hedge is part wall, part earth sculpture, part planter, and a thing of great beauty. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I have been in Cornwall for the past week and have found myself furiously photographing walls, as I often do, trailing behind my family on every walk as they roll their eyes. I am keen on walls generally. I have always thought that in a parallel, fantasy life - one in which I have been given a dose of artistic talent - I would have been a fabric or wallpaper designer, that if I were ever an artist I would have been one that works on a flat plane. Because I love a spread of pebbles on a beach, a daisy-studded lawn, ripples on sand, a good lichen-covered wall. Flatness and pattern. But alas I was not blessed with the relevant artistic skills, and so I find myself endlessly photographing walls. And Cornwall gives good wall. There is nothing quite like a Cornish wall anywhere else, or rather I must refer to them by their proper name: Cornish hedges. A Cornish hedge is part wall, part earth sculpture, part planter, and a thing of great beauty. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I have been in Cornwall for the past week and have found myself furiously photographing walls, as I often do, trailing behind my family on every walk as they roll their eyes. I am keen on walls generally. I have always thought that in a parallel, fantasy life - one in which I have been given a dose of artistic talent - I would have been a fabric or wallpaper designer, that if I were ever an artist I would have been one that works on a flat plane. Because I love a spread of pebbles on a beach, a daisy-studded lawn, ripples on sand, a good lichen-covered wall. Flatness and pattern. But alas I was not blessed with the relevant artistic skills, and so I find myself endlessly photographing walls. And Cornwall gives good wall. There is nothing quite like a Cornish wall anywhere else, or rather I must refer to them by their proper name: Cornish hedges. A Cornish hedge is part wall, part earth sculpture, part planter, and a thing of great beauty. [READ]

“Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away." ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery
For most of my professional life I have been on a mission to seek out the simple and the honest. I have an inherent aversion to fancy, froufrou and flimflam. In my experience, art, poetry, music, design and food are usually better when simple and uncomplicated. Less is always more.
But I do sometimes feel that I’m fighting a losing battle. Too often, praise is lavished upon those who seek to embellish and adorn, those who attempt to make silk purses from sows’ ears. And nowhere is this more prevalent than in the food world. [READ]

“Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away." ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery
For most of my professional life I have been on a mission to seek out the simple and the honest. I have an inherent aversion to fancy, froufrou and flimflam. In my experience, art, poetry, music, design and food are usually better when simple and uncomplicated. Less is always more.
But I do sometimes feel that I’m fighting a losing battle. Too often, praise is lavished upon those who seek to embellish and adorn, those who attempt to make silk purses from sows’ ears. And nowhere is this more prevalent than in the food world. [READ]

“Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away." ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery
For most of my professional life I have been on a mission to seek out the simple and the honest. I have an inherent aversion to fancy, froufrou and flimflam. In my experience, art, poetry, music, design and food are usually better when simple and uncomplicated. Less is always more.
But I do sometimes feel that I’m fighting a losing battle. Too often, praise is lavished upon those who seek to embellish and adorn, those who attempt to make silk purses from sows’ ears. And nowhere is this more prevalent than in the food world. [READ]

“Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away." ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery
For most of my professional life I have been on a mission to seek out the simple and the honest. I have an inherent aversion to fancy, froufrou and flimflam. In my experience, art, poetry, music, design and food are usually better when simple and uncomplicated. Less is always more.
But I do sometimes feel that I’m fighting a losing battle. Too often, praise is lavished upon those who seek to embellish and adorn, those who attempt to make silk purses from sows’ ears. And nowhere is this more prevalent than in the food world. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I once flew out of the country for a week at almost precisely this time of the year, to sandstone- and beige-hued Cypress, for a week of family wedding celebrations: mezze, swimming pools and sunburn. The countryside was parched in that glorious Mediterranean way. A few lingering spring flowers could still be seen – they lift their heads above the parapet briefly before the heat of summer truly hits – but the island’s resting state of cicadas and dust was very much in the ascendant.
We had flown out in mid-May and flew back at the end of it, and perhaps it was the adjustment I had made to an entirely biscuit-shaded landscape that make me sit up in my seat and gawp at the Somerset countryside as we descended into Bristol airport. Green. Green like I’d never seen. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I once flew out of the country for a week at almost precisely this time of the year, to sandstone- and beige-hued Cypress, for a week of family wedding celebrations: mezze, swimming pools and sunburn. The countryside was parched in that glorious Mediterranean way. A few lingering spring flowers could still be seen – they lift their heads above the parapet briefly before the heat of summer truly hits – but the island’s resting state of cicadas and dust was very much in the ascendant.
We had flown out in mid-May and flew back at the end of it, and perhaps it was the adjustment I had made to an entirely biscuit-shaded landscape that make me sit up in my seat and gawp at the Somerset countryside as we descended into Bristol airport. Green. Green like I’d never seen. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I once flew out of the country for a week at almost precisely this time of the year, to sandstone- and beige-hued Cypress, for a week of family wedding celebrations: mezze, swimming pools and sunburn. The countryside was parched in that glorious Mediterranean way. A few lingering spring flowers could still be seen – they lift their heads above the parapet briefly before the heat of summer truly hits – but the island’s resting state of cicadas and dust was very much in the ascendant.
We had flown out in mid-May and flew back at the end of it, and perhaps it was the adjustment I had made to an entirely biscuit-shaded landscape that make me sit up in my seat and gawp at the Somerset countryside as we descended into Bristol airport. Green. Green like I’d never seen. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I once flew out of the country for a week at almost precisely this time of the year, to sandstone- and beige-hued Cypress, for a week of family wedding celebrations: mezze, swimming pools and sunburn. The countryside was parched in that glorious Mediterranean way. A few lingering spring flowers could still be seen – they lift their heads above the parapet briefly before the heat of summer truly hits – but the island’s resting state of cicadas and dust was very much in the ascendant.
We had flown out in mid-May and flew back at the end of it, and perhaps it was the adjustment I had made to an entirely biscuit-shaded landscape that make me sit up in my seat and gawp at the Somerset countryside as we descended into Bristol airport. Green. Green like I’d never seen. [READ]

Travelling the length and breadth of the country looking for potential restaurant sites is exciting in terms of business development, but challenging when done by rail.
It is well known in my office, nestled nicely between two blue plaques on the sunny side of Golden Square in Soho, that I get the heebie-jeebies if I have to travel too far out of the ‘hood. Soho is neatly bordered by Oxford Street to the north, Shaftesbury Avenue to the south, Regent Street to the west and Charing Cross Road to the east. I feel safe within its confines and risk nosebleeds and panic attacks outside its four boundaries.
Imagine my horror, then, when my business partner suggests that we travel to Cheltenham, Kingston, Shoreditch and Tunbridge Wells to look at potential restaurant sites. He did precisely this last week and I came out in a cold sweat. But, in the interests of professionalism, and also so that I didn’t look like a total prima donna, I bit my lip and made the trip. Four trips to be precise, and it was every inch the traumatic experience I expected it to be.
This week, however, has been far, far worse. [READ]

Travelling the length and breadth of the country looking for potential restaurant sites is exciting in terms of business development, but challenging when done by rail.
It is well known in my office, nestled nicely between two blue plaques on the sunny side of Golden Square in Soho, that I get the heebie-jeebies if I have to travel too far out of the ‘hood. Soho is neatly bordered by Oxford Street to the north, Shaftesbury Avenue to the south, Regent Street to the west and Charing Cross Road to the east. I feel safe within its confines and risk nosebleeds and panic attacks outside its four boundaries.
Imagine my horror, then, when my business partner suggests that we travel to Cheltenham, Kingston, Shoreditch and Tunbridge Wells to look at potential restaurant sites. He did precisely this last week and I came out in a cold sweat. But, in the interests of professionalism, and also so that I didn’t look like a total prima donna, I bit my lip and made the trip. Four trips to be precise, and it was every inch the traumatic experience I expected it to be.
This week, however, has been far, far worse. [READ]

Travelling the length and breadth of the country looking for potential restaurant sites is exciting in terms of business development, but challenging when done by rail.
It is well known in my office, nestled nicely between two blue plaques on the sunny side of Golden Square in Soho, that I get the heebie-jeebies if I have to travel too far out of the ‘hood. Soho is neatly bordered by Oxford Street to the north, Shaftesbury Avenue to the south, Regent Street to the west and Charing Cross Road to the east. I feel safe within its confines and risk nosebleeds and panic attacks outside its four boundaries.
Imagine my horror, then, when my business partner suggests that we travel to Cheltenham, Kingston, Shoreditch and Tunbridge Wells to look at potential restaurant sites. He did precisely this last week and I came out in a cold sweat. But, in the interests of professionalism, and also so that I didn’t look like a total prima donna, I bit my lip and made the trip. Four trips to be precise, and it was every inch the traumatic experience I expected it to be.
This week, however, has been far, far worse. [READ]

Travelling the length and breadth of the country looking for potential restaurant sites is exciting in terms of business development, but challenging when done by rail.
It is well known in my office, nestled nicely between two blue plaques on the sunny side of Golden Square in Soho, that I get the heebie-jeebies if I have to travel too far out of the ‘hood. Soho is neatly bordered by Oxford Street to the north, Shaftesbury Avenue to the south, Regent Street to the west and Charing Cross Road to the east. I feel safe within its confines and risk nosebleeds and panic attacks outside its four boundaries.
Imagine my horror, then, when my business partner suggests that we travel to Cheltenham, Kingston, Shoreditch and Tunbridge Wells to look at potential restaurant sites. He did precisely this last week and I came out in a cold sweat. But, in the interests of professionalism, and also so that I didn’t look like a total prima donna, I bit my lip and made the trip. Four trips to be precise, and it was every inch the traumatic experience I expected it to be.
This week, however, has been far, far worse. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I almost always take a train journey in May. That train journey is from my home in Bristol to London for the Chelsea Flower Show, and I speed through the hills and tunnels, lumps and bumps of the West Country, past our sweet and steep little complicated fields and out onto the flat lands of Wiltshire, all space and horizon, then through the endless suburbs and into Paddington.
Although I tend to think that I am in tune with the seasons because of my sowing, harvesting, sunburning and shivering activities at the allotment, it is only when I get out into the countryside – even if only via Great Western Railway – that the full force of them hits me. And in May the countryside is all about the may tree, the hawthorn. Every field, little or large, is lined with hedgerows bursting with these firework sprays of white may flower. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I almost always take a train journey in May. That train journey is from my home in Bristol to London for the Chelsea Flower Show, and I speed through the hills and tunnels, lumps and bumps of the West Country, past our sweet and steep little complicated fields and out onto the flat lands of Wiltshire, all space and horizon, then through the endless suburbs and into Paddington.
Although I tend to think that I am in tune with the seasons because of my sowing, harvesting, sunburning and shivering activities at the allotment, it is only when I get out into the countryside – even if only via Great Western Railway – that the full force of them hits me. And in May the countryside is all about the may tree, the hawthorn. Every field, little or large, is lined with hedgerows bursting with these firework sprays of white may flower. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I almost always take a train journey in May. That train journey is from my home in Bristol to London for the Chelsea Flower Show, and I speed through the hills and tunnels, lumps and bumps of the West Country, past our sweet and steep little complicated fields and out onto the flat lands of Wiltshire, all space and horizon, then through the endless suburbs and into Paddington.
Although I tend to think that I am in tune with the seasons because of my sowing, harvesting, sunburning and shivering activities at the allotment, it is only when I get out into the countryside – even if only via Great Western Railway – that the full force of them hits me. And in May the countryside is all about the may tree, the hawthorn. Every field, little or large, is lined with hedgerows bursting with these firework sprays of white may flower. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
I almost always take a train journey in May. That train journey is from my home in Bristol to London for the Chelsea Flower Show, and I speed through the hills and tunnels, lumps and bumps of the West Country, past our sweet and steep little complicated fields and out onto the flat lands of Wiltshire, all space and horizon, then through the endless suburbs and into Paddington.
Although I tend to think that I am in tune with the seasons because of my sowing, harvesting, sunburning and shivering activities at the allotment, it is only when I get out into the countryside – even if only via Great Western Railway – that the full force of them hits me. And in May the countryside is all about the may tree, the hawthorn. Every field, little or large, is lined with hedgerows bursting with these firework sprays of white may flower. [READ]

The London food scene has changed significantly over the past six or seven years. Restaurants have embraced the innovativeness and energy of the street food movement, prices have come down, interior design is sexier than ever, service is casual and friendly and a new generation of talent in the kitchen means that we are now spoilt for choice when it comes to choosing where to eat: there are just so many good restaurants.
But in addition to the marked shift in the capital’s kitchens, there has been a revolution in the way we read about and discuss our restaurants. Food blogging was once seen as a slightly geeky pastime, the reserve of the nerd, on the trainspotting spectrum, so-to-speak, and often looked down upon by some of our national, printed press restaurant critics. Oh how the tables have turned! I think it could probably be argued that on-line reviewing and blogging has just as much, if not more influence on where we eat as printed reviewing and writing. A by-product of the massive virtual audience for these often-excellent blogs is a foodie community that is savvy, knowledgeable, discerning and influential.
There are some real characters in this community and, conveniently, they tend to subdivide into smaller tribes. [READ]

The London food scene has changed significantly over the past six or seven years. Restaurants have embraced the innovativeness and energy of the street food movement, prices have come down, interior design is sexier than ever, service is casual and friendly and a new generation of talent in the kitchen means that we are now spoilt for choice when it comes to choosing where to eat: there are just so many good restaurants.
But in addition to the marked shift in the capital’s kitchens, there has been a revolution in the way we read about and discuss our restaurants. Food blogging was once seen as a slightly geeky pastime, the reserve of the nerd, on the trainspotting spectrum, so-to-speak, and often looked down upon by some of our national, printed press restaurant critics. Oh how the tables have turned! I think it could probably be argued that on-line reviewing and blogging has just as much, if not more influence on where we eat as printed reviewing and writing. A by-product of the massive virtual audience for these often-excellent blogs is a foodie community that is savvy, knowledgeable, discerning and influential.
There are some real characters in this community and, conveniently, they tend to subdivide into smaller tribes. [READ]

The London food scene has changed significantly over the past six or seven years. Restaurants have embraced the innovativeness and energy of the street food movement, prices have come down, interior design is sexier than ever, service is casual and friendly and a new generation of talent in the kitchen means that we are now spoilt for choice when it comes to choosing where to eat: there are just so many good restaurants.
But in addition to the marked shift in the capital’s kitchens, there has been a revolution in the way we read about and discuss our restaurants. Food blogging was once seen as a slightly geeky pastime, the reserve of the nerd, on the trainspotting spectrum, so-to-speak, and often looked down upon by some of our national, printed press restaurant critics. Oh how the tables have turned! I think it could probably be argued that on-line reviewing and blogging has just as much, if not more influence on where we eat as printed reviewing and writing. A by-product of the massive virtual audience for these often-excellent blogs is a foodie community that is savvy, knowledgeable, discerning and influential.
There are some real characters in this community and, conveniently, they tend to subdivide into smaller tribes. [READ]

The London food scene has changed significantly over the past six or seven years. Restaurants have embraced the innovativeness and energy of the street food movement, prices have come down, interior design is sexier than ever, service is casual and friendly and a new generation of talent in the kitchen means that we are now spoilt for choice when it comes to choosing where to eat: there are just so many good restaurants.
But in addition to the marked shift in the capital’s kitchens, there has been a revolution in the way we read about and discuss our restaurants. Food blogging was once seen as a slightly geeky pastime, the reserve of the nerd, on the trainspotting spectrum, so-to-speak, and often looked down upon by some of our national, printed press restaurant critics. Oh how the tables have turned! I think it could probably be argued that on-line reviewing and blogging has just as much, if not more influence on where we eat as printed reviewing and writing. A by-product of the massive virtual audience for these often-excellent blogs is a foodie community that is savvy, knowledgeable, discerning and influential.
There are some real characters in this community and, conveniently, they tend to subdivide into smaller tribes. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
My allotment work coat is faintly ridiculous: reversible, one side black, the other shiny silver. When I bought it sometime in the early 90s that silver lining seemed a very desirable thing indeed. I wore it shiny side out with pride, its combination of silver and puff seeming just the thing for standing in frozen but stylish nightclub queues.
It is now this jacket I reach for on these changeable spring days at the plot, for although its charms for me faded alongside my desire to hang around in dark, smoky rooms full of strangers, its thermal properties did not. It is still the warmest and most waterproof coat I own and as suited to my windy north Bristol hilltop plot as it was to the outside of those clubs, just down the hill. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
My allotment work coat is faintly ridiculous: reversible, one side black, the other shiny silver. When I bought it sometime in the early 90s that silver lining seemed a very desirable thing indeed. I wore it shiny side out with pride, its combination of silver and puff seeming just the thing for standing in frozen but stylish nightclub queues.
It is now this jacket I reach for on these changeable spring days at the plot, for although its charms for me faded alongside my desire to hang around in dark, smoky rooms full of strangers, its thermal properties did not. It is still the warmest and most waterproof coat I own and as suited to my windy north Bristol hilltop plot as it was to the outside of those clubs, just down the hill. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
My allotment work coat is faintly ridiculous: reversible, one side black, the other shiny silver. When I bought it sometime in the early 90s that silver lining seemed a very desirable thing indeed. I wore it shiny side out with pride, its combination of silver and puff seeming just the thing for standing in frozen but stylish nightclub queues.
It is now this jacket I reach for on these changeable spring days at the plot, for although its charms for me faded alongside my desire to hang around in dark, smoky rooms full of strangers, its thermal properties did not. It is still the warmest and most waterproof coat I own and as suited to my windy north Bristol hilltop plot as it was to the outside of those clubs, just down the hill. [READ]

Bi-weekly blog by guest writer Lia Leendertz
My allotment work coat is faintly ridiculous: reversible, one side black, the other shiny silver. When I bought it sometime in the early 90s that silver lining seemed a very desirable thing indeed. I wore it shiny side out with pride, its combination of silver and puff seeming just the thing for standing in frozen but stylish nightclub queues.
It is now this jacket I reach for on these changeable spring days at the plot, for although its charms for me faded alongside my desire to hang around in dark, smoky rooms full of strangers, its thermal properties did not. It is still the warmest and most waterproof coat I own and as suited to my windy north Bristol hilltop plot as it was to the outside of those clubs, just down the hill. [READ]

How bartenders’ errors have made cocktail history
It started with the Americano, a humble aperitif consisting of Campari, sweet vermouth and soda. Originally called the Milano-Torino when served in Gaspare Campari’s bar in Milan in the 1860s, the drink gained popularity among Americans visiting Italy in the early twentieth century and thus got its new name.But it all started to go wrong (and by wrong I mean, of course, right) in 1919 when a bartender at Caffè Casoni in Florence was instructed by Count Camillo Negroni to give his Americano a bit more clout. Some accounts have the bartender grabbing a bottle of gin in error. Whatever. The result was one of the most fortuitous mistakes in cocktail history. Count Negroni liked the drink so much he gave it his name and the bartender garnished it with a slice of orange to distinguish it from the tame Americano which, in those days, came with a semicircle of lemon. [READ]

How bartenders’ errors have made cocktail history
It started with the Americano, a humble aperitif consisting of Campari, sweet vermouth and soda. Originally called the Milano-Torino when served in Gaspare Campari’s bar in Milan in the 1860s, the drink gained popularity among Americans visiting Italy in the early twentieth century and thus got its new name.But it all started to go wrong (and by wrong I mean, of course, right) in 1919 when a bartender at Caffè Casoni in Florence was instructed by Count Camillo Negroni to give his Americano a bit more clout. Some accounts have the bartender grabbing a bottle of gin in error. Whatever. The result was one of the most fortuitous mistakes in cocktail history. Count Negroni liked the drink so much he gave it his name and the bartender garnished it with a slice of orange to distinguish it from the tame Americano which, in those days, came with a semicircle of lemon. [READ]

How bartenders’ errors have made cocktail history
It started with the Americano, a humble aperitif consisting of Campari, sweet vermouth and soda. Originally called the Milano-Torino when served in Gaspare Campari’s bar in Milan in the 1860s, the drink gained popularity among Americans visiting Italy in the early twentieth century and thus got its new name.But it all started to go wrong (and by wrong I mean, of course, right) in 1919 when a bartender at Caffè Casoni in Florence was instructed by Count Camillo Negroni to give his Americano a bit more clout. Some accounts have the bartender grabbing a bottle of gin in error. Whatever. The result was one of the most fortuitous mistakes in cocktail history. Count Negroni liked the drink so much he gave it his name and the bartender garnished it with a slice of orange to distinguish it from the tame Americano which, in those days, came with a semicircle of lemon. [READ]

How bartenders’ errors have made cocktail history
It started with the Americano, a humble aperitif consisting of Campari, sweet vermouth and soda. Originally called the Milano-Torino when served in Gaspare Campari’s bar in Milan in the 1860s, the drink gained popularity among Americans visiting Italy in the early twentieth century and thus got its new name.But it all started to go wrong (and by wrong I mean, of course, right) in 1919 when a bartender at Caffè Casoni in Florence was instructed by Count Camillo Negroni to give his Americano a bit more clout. Some accounts have the bartender grabbing a bottle of gin in error. Whatever. The result was one of the most fortuitous mistakes in cocktail history. Count Negroni liked the drink so much he gave it his name and the bartender garnished it with a slice of orange to distinguish it from the tame Americano which, in those days, came with a semicircle of lemon. [READ]

Food For ThoughtThe key to success in the restaurant business is not about making the perfect béchamel sauce, it’s simply about being nice to people, says Russell NormanBuridan’s Ass is the name given to an ancient philosophical paradox where a donkey, positioned between two equally large and delicious bales of hay, must choose which to eat. Because the bales are identical and equidistant, the donkey lacks a reason to choose one over the other, can’t decide which to eat, and so starves to death.
I’m a bit like that when I go to a restaurant. If the menu is really well-written and everything sounds so enticing that I want to order every dish, I go into a sort of confused, trance-like menu meltdown. [READ]

Food For ThoughtThe key to success in the restaurant business is not about making the perfect béchamel sauce, it’s simply about being nice to people, says Russell NormanBuridan’s Ass is the name given to an ancient philosophical paradox where a donkey, positioned between two equally large and delicious bales of hay, must choose which to eat. Because the bales are identical and equidistant, the donkey lacks a reason to choose one over the other, can’t decide which to eat, and so starves to death.
I’m a bit like that when I go to a restaurant. If the menu is really well-written and everything sounds so enticing that I want to order every dish, I go into a sort of confused, trance-like menu meltdown. [READ]

Food For ThoughtThe key to success in the restaurant business is not about making the perfect béchamel sauce, it’s simply about being nice to people, says Russell NormanBuridan’s Ass is the name given to an ancient philosophical paradox where a donkey, positioned between two equally large and delicious bales of hay, must choose which to eat. Because the bales are identical and equidistant, the donkey lacks a reason to choose one over the other, can’t decide which to eat, and so starves to death.
I’m a bit like that when I go to a restaurant. If the menu is really well-written and everything sounds so enticing that I want to order every dish, I go into a sort of confused, trance-like menu meltdown. [READ]

Food For ThoughtThe key to success in the restaurant business is not about making the perfect béchamel sauce, it’s simply about being nice to people, says Russell NormanBuridan’s Ass is the name given to an ancient philosophical paradox where a donkey, positioned between two equally large and delicious bales of hay, must choose which to eat. Because the bales are identical and equidistant, the donkey lacks a reason to choose one over the other, can’t decide which to eat, and so starves to death.
I’m a bit like that when I go to a restaurant. If the menu is really well-written and everything sounds so enticing that I want to order every dish, I go into a sort of confused, trance-like menu meltdown. [READ]

There is a scene in John Maybury’s dark biopic of Francis Bacon, Love Is The Devil, where the artist, played by Derek Jacobi, upends a bottle of Champagne over the head of the photographer John Deakin. “Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends,” he barks.
The scene takes place in the Colony Room, a small and drab private drinking hole up a flight of stairs on Dean Street. Its regulars were mostly alcoholics or artists or both and although it had bohemian credentials and a certain grim charm when you were as arseholed as everyone else, in the cold sober light of day, it felt more like the inside of a diseased lung. [READ]

There is a scene in John Maybury’s dark biopic of Francis Bacon, Love Is The Devil, where the artist, played by Derek Jacobi, upends a bottle of Champagne over the head of the photographer John Deakin. “Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends,” he barks.
The scene takes place in the Colony Room, a small and drab private drinking hole up a flight of stairs on Dean Street. Its regulars were mostly alcoholics or artists or both and although it had bohemian credentials and a certain grim charm when you were as arseholed as everyone else, in the cold sober light of day, it felt more like the inside of a diseased lung. [READ]

There is a scene in John Maybury’s dark biopic of Francis Bacon, Love Is The Devil, where the artist, played by Derek Jacobi, upends a bottle of Champagne over the head of the photographer John Deakin. “Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends,” he barks.
The scene takes place in the Colony Room, a small and drab private drinking hole up a flight of stairs on Dean Street. Its regulars were mostly alcoholics or artists or both and although it had bohemian credentials and a certain grim charm when you were as arseholed as everyone else, in the cold sober light of day, it felt more like the inside of a diseased lung. [READ]

There is a scene in John Maybury’s dark biopic of Francis Bacon, Love Is The Devil, where the artist, played by Derek Jacobi, upends a bottle of Champagne over the head of the photographer John Deakin. “Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends,” he barks.
The scene takes place in the Colony Room, a small and drab private drinking hole up a flight of stairs on Dean Street. Its regulars were mostly alcoholics or artists or both and although it had bohemian credentials and a certain grim charm when you were as arseholed as everyone else, in the cold sober light of day, it felt more like the inside of a diseased lung. [READ]

When I was growing up in suburban west London in the 1970s and 1980s, dogs seemed like a permanent presence on the streets. We didn't have a dog in our family (there were too many children and not enough space to allow such an indulgence) but many of our neighbours were dog owners and certainly all the ne'er-do-wells at the pub had bruisers with studded collars, straining on chunky chains. Most were mongrels; canine cocktails of indeterminate breeds. The only pedigree specimens belonged to wealthy families who had off-street parking and double glazed Everest conservatories (they usually had Alsatians) and the angry dipsos at the pub (mostly fighting breeds - bulldogs, Rottweilers and Staffies.) [READ]

When I was growing up in suburban west London in the 1970s and 1980s, dogs seemed like a permanent presence on the streets. We didn't have a dog in our family (there were too many children and not enough space to allow such an indulgence) but many of our neighbours were dog owners and certainly all the ne'er-do-wells at the pub had bruisers with studded collars, straining on chunky chains. Most were mongrels; canine cocktails of indeterminate breeds. The only pedigree specimens belonged to wealthy families who had off-street parking and double glazed Everest conservatories (they usually had Alsatians) and the angry dipsos at the pub (mostly fighting breeds - bulldogs, Rottweilers and Staffies.) [READ]

When I was growing up in suburban west London in the 1970s and 1980s, dogs seemed like a permanent presence on the streets. We didn't have a dog in our family (there were too many children and not enough space to allow such an indulgence) but many of our neighbours were dog owners and certainly all the ne'er-do-wells at the pub had bruisers with studded collars, straining on chunky chains. Most were mongrels; canine cocktails of indeterminate breeds. The only pedigree specimens belonged to wealthy families who had off-street parking and double glazed Everest conservatories (they usually had Alsatians) and the angry dipsos at the pub (mostly fighting breeds - bulldogs, Rottweilers and Staffies.) [READ]

When I was growing up in suburban west London in the 1970s and 1980s, dogs seemed like a permanent presence on the streets. We didn't have a dog in our family (there were too many children and not enough space to allow such an indulgence) but many of our neighbours were dog owners and certainly all the ne'er-do-wells at the pub had bruisers with studded collars, straining on chunky chains. Most were mongrels; canine cocktails of indeterminate breeds. The only pedigree specimens belonged to wealthy families who had off-street parking and double glazed Everest conservatories (they usually had Alsatians) and the angry dipsos at the pub (mostly fighting breeds - bulldogs, Rottweilers and Staffies.) [READ]

My first coffee every day is a passable cortado made with a Nespresso machine in my suburban kitchen. It’s usually enough to power me through the 18 minute train journey into Charing Cross where I will sometimes neck a macchiato on-the-hoof from Caffè Nero before marching into Soho with something quirky but comforting on the iPod - Field Music and Wild Beasts usually hit the spot.
It’s only when I get to Cambridge Circus that my real coffee day begins. Everything up to this point has been functional, medicinal almost, just enough to get me this far. My problem now is: Where do I go for my first proper coffee? [READ]

My first coffee every day is a passable cortado made with a Nespresso machine in my suburban kitchen. It’s usually enough to power me through the 18 minute train journey into Charing Cross where I will sometimes neck a macchiato on-the-hoof from Caffè Nero before marching into Soho with something quirky but comforting on the iPod - Field Music and Wild Beasts usually hit the spot.
It’s only when I get to Cambridge Circus that my real coffee day begins. Everything up to this point has been functional, medicinal almost, just enough to get me this far. My problem now is: Where do I go for my first proper coffee? [READ]

My first coffee every day is a passable cortado made with a Nespresso machine in my suburban kitchen. It’s usually enough to power me through the 18 minute train journey into Charing Cross where I will sometimes neck a macchiato on-the-hoof from Caffè Nero before marching into Soho with something quirky but comforting on the iPod - Field Music and Wild Beasts usually hit the spot.
It’s only when I get to Cambridge Circus that my real coffee day begins. Everything up to this point has been functional, medicinal almost, just enough to get me this far. My problem now is: Where do I go for my first proper coffee? [READ]

My first coffee every day is a passable cortado made with a Nespresso machine in my suburban kitchen. It’s usually enough to power me through the 18 minute train journey into Charing Cross where I will sometimes neck a macchiato on-the-hoof from Caffè Nero before marching into Soho with something quirky but comforting on the iPod - Field Music and Wild Beasts usually hit the spot.
It’s only when I get to Cambridge Circus that my real coffee day begins. Everything up to this point has been functional, medicinal almost, just enough to get me this far. My problem now is: Where do I go for my first proper coffee? [READ]

Mood Board

"Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, of course" Russell Norman